


Sketches of Verona

by ellenoruschka



Series: Viva Verona [4]
Category: Romeo & Juliet (2013), Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet (1968), Romeo e Giulietta - Ama e Cambia il Mondo, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Canonical Character Death, Drinking & Talking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Romance, Self-Flagellation, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2019-10-03 15:30:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17286674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellenoruschka/pseuds/ellenoruschka
Summary: A series of standalone one-shots that fall into the continuity of the original story and my "Viva Verona" series.





	1. I Win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercutio loves puns; Paris doesn't. But is it really that big of a deal?..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a prompt I received from @longagoitwastuesday on Tumblr:  
> “If you make one more stupid pun, I will literally stab you.” for Paris and Mercutio.

“If you make one more stupid pun, I will literally stab you,” Paris warned, turning away from Mercutio and purposefully striding across the small balcony in a futile attempt to get as far away from the annoying twelve-year-old as possible. He sounded distinctly disgruntled, and it made Mercutio laugh in absolute delight. Driving his prudish, pretentious elder cousin out of mind was one of the boy’s favourite pastimes - that is, when he was at home, of course.

Outside the palace, there was other fun stuff to do.

And of course, Mercutio could never bear the temptation to ignore the warning he’d just received.

“My, my, now that’s what I call the _stab_ -ility of relationshi…”, and then Paris was upon him, and Mercutio didn’t get to finish the phrase. Of course, he didn’t even attempt to stab the boy - they both knew it was nothing but an empty threat; but Paris was much older, and therefore much stronger, and Mercutio was _ticklish_ \- a weakness his cousin was well aware of. Which meant that Paris got him laughing hysterically in no time, gasping for air and struggling in vain to wriggle free of his cousin’s firm grasp.

“No more!..” he barely managed to get out in between bouts of laughter, trying to catch his breath. “Paris… stop! Please, no more! Let me go!” and then he was laughing again, since his cousin decided to attack him once more before he could regain his composure.

“That wasn’t nearly convincing enough, young man,” Paris grinned. A grinning Paris was a sight so unusual that Mercutio would’ve done a double-take to make sure he hadn’t been hallucinating, had he not been busy struggling free. “How about a deal? No more stupid puns from you, no more tickles from me, how’s that?”

“I would agree to this if I were you,” a third voice commented. Both cousins turned just in time to see their uncle coming to stand in the doorway, smiling at them benignly, and Paris quickly let go of Mercutio so that they both could greet the Prince with proper bows. Escalus nodded at them, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “A man must choose his battles carefully, and act according to the circumstances.”

“But uncle, that’s unfair!” Mercutio protested, more for show than anything else, straightening out his dishevelled clothes. “I’m ticklish and he’s strong!”

“Yet somehow you manage to drive me up the wall with your wit and words alone,” Paris retorted, almost managing not to smile. “You couln’t expect me not to retaliate, now could you? In fact, you wanted me to retaliate, and that’s exactly what you got. See, there’s nothing unfair about the whole affair.”

“Why do you always have to spell it out and ruin all the fun?” Mercutio whined, rolling his eyes at his cousin’s pedantic explanation. Both Escalus and Paris laughed at that, and the latter bent down to look him in the eye.

“So do we have a deal or not?”

Mercutio huffed in childish exasperation. “Fine! Deal! But actually,” he made a short pause, which made his uncle raise an eyebrow questioningly, and then triumphantly added, “I win!”

Paris looked genuinely confused. “How so?”

“You smiled! And you laughed, too! You almost never do that, you’re always so stern and distant and all that; but you did smile, so I win!” and Mercutio laughed, too, at his own words.

This time, his elder cousin’s tone was almost sheepish. “I am sorry, little cousin. Tell you what, let us change our deal a bit: you promise not to annoy me so much, and I, too, promise not to annoy you by being so, how did you put it, stern and distant. What do you think, would Valentine like to participate in this deal as well?”

Mercutio looked surprised by his tone and actually gave the matter some thought before replying, “I think he would like that very much, too.”

“Why don’t you both go and ask him himself?” Escalus suggested, winking at his nephews. Mercutio nodded enthusiastically, and Paris readily held out his hand to him. A moment later they bolted out of the balcony and down the corridor, both the elder and the younger laughing like children.

The Prince watched them go with a smile. And if his gaze seemed somewhat sad, then, well, no one was there to notice it.


	2. A Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a prompt I received from @team-mom-wannabe on Tumblr:  
> "Uncle, I had a nightmare."

“Uncle, I had a nightmare.” Mercutio’s wavering voice sounded — felt — not just small but tiny in the spacious, sparsely lit room that was his uncle’s study. Luckily, the Prince was still awake — even in the middle of the night he was busy working, bent low over some parchments in the flickering light of a candle, and only looked up from the table when he heard his nephew speak. Distracting Escalus from his work was scary, but staying alone in a big empty bedroom was much scarier; and yet the boy trembled involuntarily under his stern uncle’s questioning, though not unfriendly, gaze.

“A nightmare, you say? That won’t do,” frowned the Prince; and a moment later Mercutio, to his surprise and relief, found himself comfortably wrapped in his uncle’s secure embrace. Escalus winked at him, picking him up and carrying him to the table. “Come sit with me, little one, and we’ll work out how to banish it forever, would you like that?”

Mercutio smiled.

The nightmare stood no chance.


	3. Wish For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a dialogue of two long-time lovers in the middle of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a prompt I received from @team-mom-wannabe on Tumblr:  
> "Fernweh - the ache for distant places: the craving for travel" for escalawrence (Prince Escalus/Friar Lawrence).
> 
> I am using the Italian spelling of Friar Lawrence's name, Lorenzo, to match it to the Prince's name, Bartolomeo, and also because I am more comfortable calling him that way.

"I wish I could just leave."   
  
The friar blinked, tearing his gaze away from the fire crackling in the fireplace, and turned to the Prince, not really surprised by what he had just heard. When it became clear that no explanation would follow, he sighed and leaned forward, reaching out towards Escalus and gently taking his free hand in his. "And what exactly do you mean by that?" he prompted.   
  
The Prince mirrored his sigh, setting his wine aside on the small table next to a mostly empty bottle and Lorenzo's cup, and pinched the bridge of his nose with a wince. "Nothing. Nothing, really."   
  
"You're a bit like an oyster, you know? Snapping shut whenever it seems that someone might accidentally get too close."   
  
Escalus hummed in agreement, "So I have been told."   
  
"Well, you don't have to be." Lorenzo brought the Prince's hand to his lips, the familiar feeling of hot breath against cold skin making Escalus shiver just like it always did, and lifted his gaze to look in his lover's face. "At least not here and not now."   
  
"I know. I'm just... formulating." The Prince dragged a free hand through his graying hair and finally relaxed his posture, sinking into the depth of his favourite armchair. Now he, in his silvery black attire, seemed to Lorenzo like a darker shadow in the shadows of the room, with only his skin glowing softly in the uneven firelight. His voice grew slightly pensive. "I love Verona. I was born here, I grew up here, my family has ruled this city for years; I know it from the inside and from the outside, I have learned its inner workings, and I try my best to make my city better. Not only because I must, but also because I want to." He paused, then added almost as an afterthought, "though I am no longer sure I can... oh well, that's beside the point."   
  
"You can and you do," Lorenzo argued, squeezing his hand reassuringly, and the Prince's firm lips formed a weak smile.   
  
"Maybe. I don't know. But there's one thing I really can't do, even though I want to."   
  
"Leave?.."   
  
"Yes, dear friend. I can't leave. Only for a short period of time, and only if my political affairs demand that I go elsewhere... and then I must go back, and that's the end of it. But I've had enough wars and conquests already." Escalus frowned, unconsciously rubbing at his left arm, just above the elbow, where a long ugly scar was hidden beneath the layers of expensive fabric; and Lorenzo made a mental note to himself to dig out one of his healing balms. He remembered that scar well - just as well as all other scars on the Prince's body; he remembered them with his eyes, and his hands, and his lips. They were not many, those scars, but they spoke to Lorenzo of bloody battles, painful wounds, and countless feverish hours of recovery. He remembered which of them troubled Escalus, especially when the weather was chill, and knew how to make it better, putting his experience in healing to use.   
  
Meanwhile, Escalus continued, "And a peaceful visit to the Duke of Mantua or some other ruler is not much better than a war against them... don't tell anyone I said so."   
  
Lorenzo huffed a laugh, surprised by his lover's unexpected admission. "Are they that bad?"   
  
The Prince smiled again, this time with a hint of amusement in his expression. "Oh no; just boring. Politics and business, that is all there is to my life, as well as theirs. To me personally, it is boring. But in general..." he made a vague gesture that could mean anything. "They are all good leaders and honourable men, though some less so than others; but that's inevitable. None of them are perfect, but neither am I. None of us are saints, and those who possess power don't have the slightest chance to even try to become such. Power and perfection... It is a contradiction in itself, dear friend."   
  
"Oh Bartolomeo... Would that I could change your mind about that."   
  
Escalus raised an eyebrow, leaning forward a bit. "Then... tell me: what think you of me as a ruler?"   
  
He didn't seem to be seeking affirmation or approval, Lorenzo noted, even though his question seemed to indicate otherwise; but what Escalus was driving at was still a mystery to him. Lorenzo looked into his eyes, momentarily transfixed by the warm light shining in them - was that the reflection of the flames in the fireplace, or was that something else? - but quickly recovered his composure and nodded. "There is a lot to say in response to this, Bartolomeo, you know it. You're a born leader, dear friend; Verona prospers, and the peace between us and other cities has never been so sound as it is now. And all of that is due to your efforts."   
  
"Verona prospers..." Escalus echoed, shaking his head. "Oh, dearest friend. She prospers like a rich woman, dressed in finest robes but suffering from severe pains inside her fragile body; and I have no power over her pain, just like one man's head has no power over the ache in another's stomach. I have run out of remedies that could stop the disease. It needs a different physician and a different treatment, which I can't provide."

Lorenzo winced at the bitterness in Bartolomeo's voice and could only run his fingertips tenderly over his hand in response to his words. He knew his lover's sorrow well, he knew how much work the Prince was putting into stabilizing the situation in his city, torn by feud and soaked in blood... and how little it seemed to help. If only he could do something... 

"You do what you can. And if it is not enough, then it is hardly your fault, my liege. My love. My Bartolomeo."   
  
The Prince drew a shuddering breath and bent his head to press a grateful kiss to Lorenzo's hands clasping his own. He then straightened up and smiled at Lorenzo with incredible warmth. "I do not know what I have done to deserve your kindness, dear friend, but I am eternally grateful to have you here with me."

That smile... oh, that genuine, happy, beloved smile. It was a rare sight, and there were not too many people who got to see it; most were used to a stern gaze, a sharp gesture, a sombre expression... the Prince of Verona guarded his emotions well. But the rarer the sight, the dearer it was to Lorenzo. The friar could not explain what it was about the Prince's smile that made his heart flutter and melt so easily; but then again, he would probably also be unable to explain how he had ended up loving the man in the first place, if asked. Not that it any longer mattered. 

"You never answered my question though," he reminded gently. "You said you wanted to leave Verona?.."

"Ah yes. I beg your forgiveness; my own thoughts led me astray. Yes, I said so, and I meant what I said. I am... tired, Lorenzo," Escalus had never complained before, and so his wistful honesty surprised the friar a bit more than it probably should have done. "It is not even the fact that I stay here all the time that is daunting; it is the knowledge that I will never leave. Not even after death will I leave Verona's beloved walls. I will be buried next to my ancestors, and then my kin will be buried next to me... All will be as it should be, and it is a good thing. But," the Prince turned away to stare into the flames, pressing the tips of his fingers together, "some people are born with a strange innate need to see new places, and they are never content with their lives until they are on the road. This, too, is probably a good thing. Except it is not, not for those who can't go to see those places. Some don't have enough money, some have to remain with their families... and so they stay, and in their sleep they dream of faraway lands they will never see. And then they wake up to live their daily lives in a place they have known since birth, the place that will house their remains after their death... the only place they get to know."

"You've never spoken of this before..." Lorenzo had moved closer at some point and was now half-perched on, half-leaning against the armrest of Bartolomeo's seat. "You've never shown that you..."

"That I am not so different from my crazy, foolish daydreamer of an heir after all?" Escalus joked with a laugh. "Well, we _are_ related, aren't we? The only difference is..." his tone suddenly lost all the mirth, "that my nephew can say and do things openly, while I..." Escalus let his voice trail away, leaving the rest of the phrase unsaid. 

Both men fell silent for a moment, Bartolomeo deep in thought, Lorenzo waiting for him to continue; for he felt there still was something weighing on his lover's mind.

"Maybe I am too soft with him," suddenly added Bartolomeo. "But I cannot be otherwise. He is sixteen now; I was his age when I first led my father's men into battle. Oh, I was a good  _condottiero._ Not a single lost battle. You know why? Because I hated war. I still do. The absence of war doesn't mean peace, and you, living in Verona, you know what I mean. But at least there are no conflicts between Verona and other cities now, all because I am good at war. And at politics. But I hate politics, too. I am really good at things I hate. Wars, and treaties, and trade, and law, and dishonesty - all of these are things a proper ruler must be good at. No one had asked me if I wanted it or not, and I am what I must be, not what I want to be. I am not regretting it. But I can't bring myself to do the same to Mercutio."

Lorenzo could have argued; he could have stated the obvious and said that most people usually ended up being what they had to be, not what they wanted to be; that Escalus was not the only one. He didn't. He only shifted a bit closer.

Escalus shot him a strange look, then reached for his half-empty cup, shaking his head to throw back a loose strand of hair falling on his forehead. "It's ironic, really," he twisted the cup to make the wine swirl. "I bet if I start hating travelling I will immediately be presented with hundreds of opportunities to travel. And if I stop wanting to end that damned feud then I will immediately see numerous ways to end it once and for all. Stop wishing for something and you will get it, is that how everyone's lives work?"

"Don't you hate the feud though?" Lorenzo pointed out sensibly.

"I do. And apparently, which is, to think of it, quite logical, I am good at _not_ stopping it. But," Escalus turned back to the friar, surprisingly looking a bit sheepish, "that's not what I was going to talk about. I probably shouldn't have drunk as much wine as I did, dear friend; it loosened my tongue and tangled my thoughts. Please do forgive me for not making much sense tonight."

"You've been making perfect sense... up until now. What should I forgive you for, your honesty?" Lorenzo carefully pried the cup out of his pliant hand and set it back on the table, then put an arm around his lover. "There is no need for you to be tense and reserved all the time. One evening of relaxation and honesty could do you a lot of good, and wine is a good way to achieve it."

"You sound like a physician," huffed Escalus. He was now leaning against Lorenzo's side, nuzzling into the soft creases of his robe. The friar was not so sure whether he was doing it unconsciously or just pretending to be unaware of his own actions, but couldn't help but smile at the catlike gesture and resisted the urge to scratch the tired Prince behind the ears. 

"I could be one," he agreed instead. "I know how to heal wounds and treat illnesses."

"I am not ill."

"And I thank God for that. But you know what, there was something you said a minute ago... A question. I never answered it."

Escalus looked up at him, intrigued. "So?'

"You said something like..." Lorenzo frowned, thinking. "Oh yes. 'Stop wishing for something and you will get it, is that how everyone's lives work?' Did I get that right?"

"You did," nodded the Prince. "Though that was more rhetorical, I wasn't really expecting you to answer that."

"Nevertheless. Bartolomeo," the friar tenderly caressed his cheeks with his thumbs. "My liege, my friend, my impossible love. I never stopped wishing for you."

This time Escalus remained silent. But the soft smile that spread slowly across his noble features, the warm glow that settled in his eyes, and the firm embrace he drew his lover into spoke volumes. They spoke of affection, and of love, and of gratitude; it was a _thank you for giving me not only empty hope but a base for that hope, too_ ; it was a _thank you for being there for me_ ; it was a quiet, wordless  _I love you_. 

Maybe wishes could come true after all?..

 


	4. Non voglio perderti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why didn't you tell me anything?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is in Italian and means "I don't want to lose you".
> 
> This was originally written in Russian and published here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/7887201  
> Sources of inspiration:  
> 1) a Russian theatre adaptation of "Romeo and Juliet" that I went to see in the autumn of 2018;  
> 2) the new version of "Non so più" ("J'Sais Plus") from "Romeo e Giulietta - Ama e cambia il mondo". Here's a link if you are interested: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c6pnaRUFCsA

Upon hearing Lorenzo's whimper Escalus literally tears the friar's robe off his shoulders… and is struck speechless. He stumbles back, enraged, horrified.

“What the hell ?! How... Who on earth...” the shock is too deep to allow him to be any more coherent. “Why didn’t you say anything?!”

Lorenzo is silent, unmoving, he is not even trying to pull his robe back on... he knows not what to say. Should he say – it was poor Juliet, banging her fists against my chest in a fit of despair, begging me to help her and her husband?.. Should he say – and it was me, who had failed to save them both, hoping that the pain of the body would drown out the pain of the soul?.. He would rather not say anything at all.

“Why didn't you tell me anything?” the Prince repeats, calmer now, searching his face for an answer. He reaches out but hesitates, afraid to cause even more pain inadvertently; but then finally touches the friar’s forearm carefully. “Or…”

Lorenzo closes his eyes.

“You didn’t want me to know,” Escalus states, dropping his hand. Lorenzo remains silent, and his silence is enough of an answer for the Prince to know he is right.

“But why?.. This is... Who did this?” he angrily clenches his fist, and oh, does Lorenzo know this gesture. Countless times has he covered those tightly clenched fingers with his own, rubbing them, his soft touch making Escalus relax his iron grip… He can’t do it anymore. Not now, not after this.

Not a single movement. Only words.

“No one is to blame, Bartolomeo. No one but me.”

The Prince frowns, confused. Lorenzo takes a deep breath, before diving right in.

“It was I who did it.”

“You are delirious,” Escalus counters immediately without a trace of doubt. “You have a fever, and you do not know what you are saying.”

“But I do,” Lorenzo insists. “It was I. I did it to myself. You were not supposed to know...” but the Prince is no longer listening, his eyes fixed on the woven belt with a massive metal buckle, tied over the friar’s robes. 

“Bartolomeo, I...” 

Escalus moves his gaze higher, staring intently at Lorenzo’s mangled back. The friar is holding himself upright, his spine straighter than usual; it clearly hurts him to slouch even a little. Long, painful abrasions and red welts cover his fevered skin; there are ugly bruises here and there, left by the heavy buckle; Escalus also spots several deep, clearly inflamed flesh wounds apparently caused by the forceful blows landing repeatedly in the same place. The pain must be excruciating. 

Escalus sighs heavily and squeezes his eyes shut. In his mind’s eye, he sees Lorenzo down on his knees in this very room, hours earlier, whipping himself with merciless determination. He can almost hear his screams and groans echoing across the small, sparsely furnished cell; can almost see his beloved friar’s tormented face and the desperation in his darkened eyes as he keeps torturing himself with his own belt until it falls out of his shaking hand, all bloodied. There are still faint traces of blood on the floor, he recalls. 

The image is all too vivid, all too horrible… all too real. 

When the Prince opens his eyes again, his voice is calmer than he would have expected it to be. “You didn't even think to clean these, did you?.. Let me help you now; you will explain everything later.” 

Lorenzo does not move, hands clenched nervously in front of him, eyes cast down. “It won’t be necessary. You will regret having helped me when you find out what I’ve been hiding from you.” 

Escalus freezes for a moment. Then takes a quick step forward, grabbing the priest's hands and squeezing them, firmly, fervently. 

“Whatever it is…” he finds that he cannot say anything further and simply drops down to his knees in front of his lover, pressing his forehead to their interlocked hands. 

Lorenzo’s whole body is shaking – the Prince should hate him, not kneel before him! Escalus looks him in the eye as he gets back on his feet. His voice is calm and commanding once again. “Show me what I can use to help you. I am not losing you too.”

Escalus is an experienced warrior. He knows how to treat wounds. And as he skillfully washes his lover’s numerous abrasions with cold water and applies healing ointment, Lorenzo begins to speak, his voice trembling with pain. He speaks of Juliet’s despair, and of his seemingly impeccable plan, and of how it all went horribly wrong… He explains that everything that happened in the tomb was his fault; and that he could have prevented it all. He speaks monotonously, slowly, clutching his belt with both hands and staring straight ahead, the litany of admissions sometimes interrupted by a stifled moan when the Prince’s ministrations hurt too much. Lorenzo does not allow himself anything more than that – he did it all to himself and he must now suffer the consequences. 

But physical pain is hardly a distraction from the confession he is making. And even as he speaks, the friar is expecting that Escalus will shove him away in rage and repulsion, realizing that his ill-fated lover deserves a much worse punishment than a mere flagellation. He is expecting – waiting – dreading to hear the scorn in his lover’s – his lord’s – voice, to hear the door slam… dreading the silence that will follow. 

Escalus listens quietly, frowning at times but refraining from commentary, and never stops working on Lorenzo’s wounds. When Lorenzo finally falls silent, he continues to apply the strong-smelling ointment to the remaining abrasions, just as quietly, giving no immediate response. 

In fact, he simply does not know how to respond. He does have many reasons to hate Lorenzo, to be in rage; but he has neither the strength nor the desire for it. More than that, he understands that Lorenzo despises and hates himself enough already. That was the reason for his merciless self-flagellation; that was the reason why he had been avoiding Escalus for days… and the Prince can’t bear the thought of torturing his beloved Lorenzo further. 

“Go, Bartolomeo,” the priest says, eerily calm, as soon as Escalus steps back, having finished treating his lover’s wounded back. “You know everything, now go.” He hesitates. “Go, my Prince, I won’t run. I'll be here until... until such time as you might need me in court.” 

And that is when Escalus realizes with belated horror that Lorenzo is absolutely sure that the only outcome for him after his confession is arrest and... and then death. 

But to Lorenzo, being arrested and executed are the least of his concerns. What he himself fears the most is that his beloved Bartolomeo will abandon him, simply walking out of his cell to never come back. 

The Prince does not know it. But he knows what he is going to do.

“Do not send me away in such haste, holy father,” he replies after a short pause, gently taking Lorenzo by the shoulders and turning him around to look him in the face. “I am not done yet.” He traces the tips of his fingers down his lover’s chest and over the bruises there. “These should not be ignored, either.”

Lorenzo makes no attempt to move or speak; simply stares at him uncomprehendingly, his dark eyes full of mute disbelief. Escalus sighs and leans closer, barely touching the priest's lips with his own, the warmth of their breaths mingling in the cool evening air.

“I did tell you I am not going to lose you, did I not?”

And then there is a kiss, tender yet deep and persistent; and Escalus can’t embrace Lorenzo properly without hurting him, so he resorts to simply holding his lover’s wrists to keep him in place. 

“You are all I have left.”

Lorenzo is trembling, his voice barely a whisper. “I do not…” He falls silent again after that, averting his gaze.

“You do not what?” Escalus pulls him closer, searching his face for a clue. 

“I do not want to hurt you,” the friar exhales. He tries to turn away, but Bartolomeo does not let him. “I do not want you to justify my actions.” God alone knows how hard it is for Lorenzo to say these words. 

Escalus sighs. “I am not going to justify your actions. Nor am I going to blame you. I myself am guilty, no less so than others are; I have been turning a blind eye to too many troubles for too long, and look where it took us. But no one is innocent. For Mercutio…” he stumbles, and has to take a deep breath before he is able to continue, “it was his own temper, and Romeo’s clumsiness, too, that became his downfall. It was the feud between the families that destroyed Romeo and Juliet – listen, Lorenzo, listen to me! – the feud between the families, not you. It was the plague, not you, that stopped your messenger; it was Romeo, not you, who chose to drink that poison; it was Juliet, not you, who chose to pick up that dagger. You did what you could, but fate was stronger – and is it not always stronger than our dreams and choices?.. You are not omnipotent, and neither am I; but at least you did something. I didn’t even try – though who knows, maybe I could have prevented it all?”

The Prince’s words are cold, calm, rational – just as they always are; just as they should be. He pauses to take another long breath, and the corners of his mouth twitch, forming a sad smile.

“Maybe we could have done it together. If only I had known...”

He gently caresses Lorenzo's cheek with the back of his hand, taking care not to smear his skin with the ointment that is still covering the tips of his fingers. 

“See? I am not justifying anyone’s actions.”

The priest can only nod silently. 

“I'm not saying you're innocent, too. Nor am I saying that all of this did not hurt me.”

Escalus almost touches Lorenzo’s quivering lips with his own again and exhales softly. 

“But I am still saying I do not want to lose you.” 


	5. Errare humanum est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I promised I would keep him safe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Errare humanum est - (Lat.) "to err is human." 
> 
> This is my own translation of a songfic I wrote in Russian for a prompt I received on VKontakte: the task was to write about the character's greatest mistake. The original text is here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/8604319/22144737#part_content  
> Disclaimer: in this fic I am quoting a Russian song "Колыбельная на одной струне" belonging to the band Немного Нервно (You can listen to it here: https://youtu.be/b8Kwng9WXy4).  
> Please check the end notes for the translation of the quotations.

_Errare humanum est._

The wretched phrase echoes across the prince’s skull, bouncing between the aching temples, pulses at the back of the head to the rhythm of his footsteps, repeating itself over and over again… but brings no relief. It is cold in the crypt, and Escalus’s body, accustomed to the summer heat that reigns supreme in the streets of Verona, cannot help but shiver in the chilly air.

The prince is walking down the aisle between the rows of old tombs, his face as calm and his pace as slow as if he were strolling leisurely along a corridor in his own palazzo. It is only his hands, clenched together so tightly that his knuckles are white, that betray him.

The prince is walking down the aisle between the rows of old tombs: marble headstones, like heavy blankets, cover the bodies of those whose blood runs in his veins. It is the final resting place for all the Scaligers – and it will be his resting place, too, one day – and not a single ray of light will ever shine upon their faces again.

Yet one tomb is still open. The very tomb that should be empty – should have been empty for many decades to come – but… _errare humanum est_ , this damned phrase etches itself once again into the bone of his temple; and Escalus stops.

_Деревья растут снизу вверх._  
_Твой голод уснул, как зверь._  
_Я прячу лицо в ладонях._  
_Ты отрицаешь смерть._

Even in death, Mercutio seems alive. All the blood washed away, torn clothes replaced by new ones – the royal purple looks as good on him as ever – lights and shadows from the torches dancing across his resting face… it is almost as if he were about to awaken. Any second now, his eyelids will tremble, and bright green eyes will glance up at the prince from beneath those dark lashes; and then Mercutio will leap up, laughing, absolutely delighted by the success of yet another not-so-innocent prank.

 _Глазницы полны тумана,_  
_Но я узнаю тебя_  
_И слушаю, словно музыку,_  
_Приставленную к виску._

To err is human, and Escalus almost reaches out with a hand, wishing to touch his nephew’s shoulder, to shake him, to rouse him… but Mercutio’s oh-so-familiar face is pale and unmoving. There is no breath in his chest, nor any colour in his cheeks; only those strange, sombre shadows that have settled deep into his skin under his closed eyes and around his mouth, expressionless, devoid of his usual mischievous smile.

The prince drops his hand and turns away.

Another couple of steps, even and slow, a few more measured breaths; his eyes are burning, and the air smells of damp, and decay, and something else – incense, perhaps?.. Another tomb, and next to it, Escalus stops again.

 _И недалеко до рассвета,_  
_На стене расцветают тени_  
_Птиц и растений,_  
_Холмов, укрытых травой…_

This one looks tiny next to the rest of them – monumental, imposing, even pretentious; but such was the wish of the woman who is interred here, under the unassuming grey headstone with a laconic inscription “Barbara della Scala” and two dates carved into stone below it. Not in her husband’s family crypt does she sleep, not under his name that she had so despised – no, her place is with the Scaligers. Escalus casts a glance further into the darkness of the vault: his parents’ tombs are to his right, and a few feet further away, his two younger brothers lie. Yes, everything is as it should be.

Or rather, almost everything. Everything save that one tomb that should be – should have been – empty, waiting for Bartolomeo’s time to come.

That is how it should have been, but… _errare humanum est._

 _И петь ему колыбельные —_  
_Да все на одной струне,_  
_Не годы и километры,_  
_А то, чего больше нет._

The prince of Verona sinks down to his knees slowly, heavily, and presses his forehead to the chilled marble of the tomb. Behind his hunched back, there stands Mercutio – dead Mercutio, lifeless Mercutio; a ghost, a spectre, a shadow of a man lost forever; and his cold, heavy hands – too cold, too heavy – are an unrelenting, unforgiving pressure on the prince’s stooping shoulders.

“Sweet my sister,” whispers Escalus. “I could not save him… I could not save your son.” His tongue is numb and sluggish against his teeth. “I… I thought I… I thought… I promised I would keep him safe! I promised you… I loved him so! I am so sorry, sweet my sister, I failed, I failed you both. I thought I could… I am sorry, sister of mine. Mercutio, my child, I am so, so sorry…”

But only his own broken voice echoes back in response.

 _Кирпич к кирпичу,_  
_Плечом к плечу,_  
_Я никогда больше не хочу_  
_Идти домой чужой, немой,_  
_Когда вокруг растёт стена._

The Scaliger crypt is cold and empty. No one is there – just the prince of Verona, hunched over on the floor next to the grave of a sister long gone, dry sobs wracking his entire body.

 _Пока мы легки, пока честны,_  
_пока светлы —_  
_Услышь меня, услышь меня,_  
_услышь меня!.._

And even if he feels an invisible presence right next to him…

_Услышь меня,_  
_Услышь меня,_  
_Услышь меня!.._

…errare humanum est?..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A Lullaby On One String" (Nemnogo Nervno)  
> Колыбельная на одной струне (Немного Нервно)
> 
> You can listen to it here: https://youtu.be/b8Kwng9WXy4
> 
> The trees are growing upwards.  
> Your hunger has fallen asleep like a beast.  
> I am hiding my face in my hands.  
> You are denying death.  
> ...  
> Eye sockets are full of mist,  
> But I recognize you  
> And listen to you like to the music  
> Put against my temple.  
> ...  
> And it is not long till the break of day.  
> Shadows are blooming on the wall -  
> Those of birds, and of plants,  
> And of hills covered with grass...  
> ...  
> And to sing him lullabies,  
> All played on one string.  
> Not years and not kilometers,  
> But something that no longer exists.  
> ...  
> Stone by stone,  
> Side by side,  
> Never again do I want  
> To go home, a mute stranger,  
> When there is a wall rising all around (me).  
> ...  
> While we are light, while we are honest, while we are bright -  
> Hear me, hear me, hear me!  
> ...  
> Hear me,  
> Hear me,  
> Hear me!
> 
> The original lyrics can be found here: https://lyrics.fandom.com/wiki/Немного_Нервно:Колыбельная_На_Одной_Струне


End file.
